


I don't know why we've come but something in me will never fear again

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: (because he was he acted so hyped to the point of burning out), M/M, Pining, after that losss and the realisation he's sacrificed oz this year on this arena, also this is a response to a certain trend and some terrible assumptions, and remember when i was like OKAY THEY ARE OBVIOUSLY BROTHERS IN ARMS, and what if it pushed them to seeking SKIN ON SKIN RELEASE, and yes this is canon them being bros, but hush about it not gonna be petty about it, but then my brain went but what if nick was in love and what if alex was manic and a mess, i was so affected by their run at the ATP CUP i can't sto writing about it, i'm so sorry but it can't be undone now, just vague haha, so much pining, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: Alex and Nick in the aftermath of the ATP Cup semi-final match with Nadal and before Melbourne. Or musings on this statement by Simon Cambers: "Nick’s realized why he wants to play the game. He’s realized that he’s playing for something more than himself."
Relationships: Alex de Minaur/Nick Kyrgios, Nick Kyrgios/Alex De Minaur
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	I don't know why we've come but something in me will never fear again

*

It’s very quiet in the locker room, afterwards. After the wildfire comes and goes, leaving skeletons of the buildings and smoke covering the surface of ashes-drown place where life used to be, silently, almost serenely. It’s the most gruesome thing about this, how a disaster rages to leave deadly silence in its wake.

Just like now.

Guccione and Peers are at the gym, preparing for the honourable doubles. Ridiculous idea. To go out there, in disgrace, in despair, and fight for what? For what’s left. But what if there’s nothing left, like with these destroyed dwellings. Not even bones, not even ashes. Just desolation.

Nick is sitting on a bench, playing with the hems of his hoodie, slouching, like there’s weight he carries that breaks him into half. He feels empty, though. The burden of shame, anger and worry has left him and there’s only eerie stillness inside him, something alien, something that should terrify him. He only knows noise. His most faithful companion. Noise, generating familiar fear and anxiety leading to sometimes motivating other times destructive anger. Now, there’s nothing. He watches Alex getting for the shower on autopilot, mechanic, like a puppet. Like he’s empty too.

They are desolation now. Not even bones. Not even ashes remain.

Alex’s moves are robotic. He doesn’t let anyone see beneath the tissue, but Nick does. Nick knows him enough. Knows his threshold of pain is non-existent and the strength of his will can even deceive Alex himself.

He calls himself ice. He is. Unbreakable, solid, piercingly cold on the outside. Burning slow and viciously, though. With cracks under the surface invisible to the naked eye.

But Nick does see and Nick knows there are wounds, on the inside, in his body, but in his heart, too, that bleed now, that hurt him.

When Alex tries to go past him, he dares to reach out, with his hand, for his hand, like he did in the corridors when they were walking their path of shame, their way of the cross. Alex let him then, Alex lets him now.

He burns, like ice does. It goes deep into Nick and makes him feel wounded, too. Bleeding inside.

“You’re a hero, you know that?” he’s keeping Alex’s hand inside his, saying the words out loud, but saying the words with gesture, too. Pleading for him to understand.

Even if Alex never needed reassurance. Even if Alex doesn’t think of wins, successes and accomplishments in halves. Because he never does anything in halves. It’s all or nothing with him.

“I didn’t last till last chapter, so not really. They always forget those who almost get to the finish line. You’re either first or you’re last. No one remembers those in the middle, Nick,” is his answer, confirming everything Nick already knows and expected of him.

“You didn’t lose there, Demon. Nadal’s just won,” their hands remain joined and Nick feels the burn even more. He wants to. It’s his punishment, too. These are his wounds, too.

“It doesn’t matter, mate. We’re still packing, yeah?” but Alex doesn’t allow him. He breaks the connection and rushes to the exit, his body on strings moving with purpose, re-enacting known patters, even if he’s empty inside like wood. Nick knows. Even though he’s wounded inside and out, not letting anyone know. Not letting anyone see.

But Nick does.

He always does.

*

He can’t be alone in his room. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t call home, doesn’t watch the news any more. He saw enough cinders. Enough fire induced destruction. On that court. And off it, too. In the locker rooms, afterwards.

Just like at home he couldn’t stay in and do nothing, he moves, pulled by gravity, by ache, by guilt, by the resurgence of feelings he pretended he suppressed or drown in white noise. And he’s by Alex’s door before he knows it, like they’re wired, like this tournament has become some ritual, binding them together into likemindness or togetherness that almost feels intimate to Nick. His thoughts are Nick’s thoughts, his feelings Nick’s feelings, his wounds should be Nick’s wounds.

The knock sounds ominous, imposing, but Nick’s anchored to this place and wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Alex’s face when he opens is ashen. Sullen. The same face Nick witnessed on court. Of someone putting everything on the line. Someone willingly killing himself, slowly, bleeding out. There’s tiredness painting his features old and thin, his eyes still shine with fever, with this manic purpose as he lets Nick in and goes back to hectic packing, like it’s not middle of the night and he’s catching the first plane to Melbourne to win Australian Open. Like he wants to fix everything that happened. Show them, remind them, let them all know that he’s good, he’s capable, he can do it.

He is the local hero after all. He is. He is. Just let him.

There are pretentious, shallow words on Nick’s mouth he almost lets out. _Are you all right? How are you feeling? Don’t beat yourself up. You’re so good. You’re great. You’re the greatest._ But he doesn’t. He knows they would echo like hollow weightless bubbles. Burst into nothingness. He’s moving deeper into the room to lean against the sofa, to distract, to pretend.

“We could stay for a day or two. You could show me around some more. You owe me Snow Egg, after I absolutely rocked at that pool game, my friend,” he’s babbling, he’s nervous, his hands are clammy and just watching Alex bustling between the wardrobe and his bag in a nervous manner is enough to stir this uncomfortable layer of anxiety inside him.

Like there are things to be addressed. There are things to be called out loud. Like Alex is running away instead of running into another battle.

“I would love to show you who’s the boss in this particular matter, mate, but there’s Melbourne. You need to get ready for Oz.”

Alex’s mumbling, too. Chewing on words, like he learned them by heart and murmurs the ready lines under his breath to convince himself and everyone else that he’s perfect for the role.

The “you” doesn’t escape Nick’s attention. He voices it with a hoarse sound of fear and confusion. “Do you mean, “we”?”

Alex pauses over a pair of socks, holds them in his hand, not looking at Nick. There’s stillness about him that’s rarely there, something unnatural, unfitting. Something Nick doesn’t know how to approach. It makes him look small and vulnerable. Like finally he’s breaking under the burden he put on himself. Like finally he’s letting them see the truth.

“Yeah, right. _We_ ,” and then awkwardly goes back to packing, like he wants to cover up this exposure. Like he wants to go back to pretending. Or running away.

Nick dares to get closer. This fluttering creature of vivid energy, of bursting emotions. You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had in your palms. Swirling palette of colours. But his face is lacking. Lacking conviction. There was “vamos” and “come on” during that match with Nadal on his mouth roaring loud but at some point Nick didn’t believe one sound of those battle cries. Because he saw into this face, behind the bravado, behind screaming courage. And he saw pain. Fear of defeat. He saw fatigue. Even if Alex wouldn’t let it show. Even if Alex was fighting like he has wings and claws and sharp teeth.

Even if Alex was already dead inside.

“Hey, hey, hey, stop for a minute okay?” he puts his hand on Alex’s arms to stall him mid track, skin cold, but burning, eyes feverish and looking anywhere but at Nick. Nick names the clichés out loud. Chases the truth. “Are you all right?”

Alex is nodding his head. A little bit too fast. A little bit too automatic. An empty gesture of posturing reassurance. Nick’s fingers dig deeper into this skin, as if trying to fix him, beseeching the reality. _Come on, be all right, please be all right._

Alex’s eyes are so tired, his face, boyish face of a warrior of strength and will, pale, whipped with wrinkles, like he’s exhausted, like he’s so terrified. “Come here,” he pulls him close, wraps his arms around him, shelters him completely inside the grip, inside himself, safe, healed, strong, fighting. Alex doesn’t respond. Alex stands there, numb and still. It’s disturbing. His face nodding, like in trance against Nick’s chest. He is beseeching a reality too.

Nick whispers nothings to Alex’s hair. Prayers? Hopes? Charms?

Fuck.

“That doubles match feels like ages ago, ain’t it? Do you think it was hubris that lost us? Do you think we got arrogant?” Alex’s talking to his chest, with Nick’s hands traveling up and down of Alex’s shoulders, like trying to bring him back from pieces he’s fallen into. Mend him back to his tall, strong, unbreakable self.

“Fuck, no,” Nick’s pulling him back to look into Alex’s eyes. Even if they seem empty. Even if Alex does not look back. “You work so hard. There’s no arrogance about you, man. There’s success earned by hard work. You just happened to have a match with the same type of a guy you are and you just happened to come out short.”

Nick’s pleading and Alex goes back to nodding his head in this strange, perfunctory way. “You don’t work hard. You never do. And you’re always at least a step ahead. You’re still better than me,” and his voice echoes with something numb, something defeated.

It hurts.

The truth.

But being bare with it in front of Alex’s eyes hurts more. Because he’s one of the few people Nick wants to try for the most. He’s one of the few people Nick never wants to disappoint. And then Alex’s hands are moving, touching Nick like he’s trying to anchor himself, touching him like Alex is adoring him. In awe but in envy, too. “You’re their hero, Nick. They don’t want you. They think it’s me. But it’s not. It’s not. I’m not who they want me to be,” Alex’s hands feel small and frail (not strong, vicious instruments of relentless fight he always gives his opponents on court) when he’s gripping Nick’s shirt, something manic and desperate about it (as manic and desperate as he was playing his points against Nadal, burning out, bleeding out, for everyone to see, for everyone to cheer for more, like he’s a victim of games to baptize the arena with crimson, not green and gold).

Nick doesn’t stop him. Nick steals these moments. His own palms cradling Alex’s face, forcing him to look back. To see his eyes haunted, not seeing.

_Please. You’re all right._

“That’s bullshit, Demon. That’s the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard you spill. I don’t want to be their anything. And they will never love and believe in anyone more than they do in you. As they should,” his voice is hoarse. Like he’s confessing something more, than the nation’s credo.

Like he’s confessing. Period.

Alex does look at him. He does look back. His eyes still feverish, like he’s disconnected with himself, like something in his body is burning, burning cold like ice, pushes him to run, to move, to do, to crash into pieces, but there’s a flash of ache. Or envy. Or anger. Or everything in between. “You’re so fucking stupid, Nick,” he says then, climbs on his toes and with hands clutching to Nick’s shoulders he’s pulling him close and kissing his mouth.

Nick doesn’t manage to object, his body already uncurling itself in Alex’s arms like coming to life, hands pulling on his waist like they were moulded to fit to angels there. Alex swallows the sound coming from him, sound of surprise (not rejection), sound of realization (not confusion), sound of relief (not shame), his tongue warm, wet, familiar, lapping on whatever words were stuck in Nick’s throat.

There’s rush in a way Alex moves them, to the edge of the bed, strong, dominant, controlling, like he is on court. But there’s hastiness betraying something underlying desire and desperation growing between them, in a way his open mouth gulps on Nick’s groans, in a way his now strong and skilful hands pull on the hem of his Tshirt, in a way his trained, muscled legs push Nick backwards to land on the bed with Alex already climbing on his lap like he belongs there.

Like he’s belonged there for a while.

“Fuck, jesus, god,” Nick’s mumbling to the edge of his jaw, nuzzling fuzzy stubble there, nosing a path to his ear, inhaling cold, inhaling fever, consuming oblivion between them. “We shouldn’t, jesus, don’t to this, Alex. Just don’t, you shouldn’t,” scattered words, melting in sighs and moans, with Alex rutting against Nick, hard, warm, relentless, like Alex is on court, like Alex sets the pace on court, unapologetic, determined, on a mission. He’s breathing hard to Nick’s hair, sending shivers down his tight and aching skin.

“I want this,” Alex whispers, because Alex lies, voice breaking on “this”. He doesn’t say “you”, because it’s not Nick he wants. He’s mouthing it to Nick’s cheek, his forehead, then to the top of his head, like adoring his face with ghost kisses, but there’s fever of wanting to soak up something else. Not Nick as a man he wants to have, to fuck, to love? But Nick, as a tennis player. Australia’s hero that will not let them down, that will deliver them glory, that will remind them they can be great still.

Nick is greedy. Nick is selfish. And Nick chases Alex’s fire in return. His heart. His will to fight. His courage. His hands mapping Alex’s back, to pull him closer, to grip his ass, to have him grind more against himself tell it. Alex’s lips kissing his earlobe, grazing skin there with his teeth respond with his own agenda. They are both stealing from each other. Nick wants Alex (vulnerable, desperate, lying to be his) and Alex wants what Nick can be (even if he isn’t, not really, never will be).

“Don’t you want me?” Alex’s voice in his ear sounds breathy, feels hot and tastes rich on his skin and Nick might be keening to it, wordless, speechless, breathless. Raw. Kissing his lips, the only answer he has, ( _of course I do_ ) drinking Alex’s kisses like they are sweet and true ( _that’s all I want_ ).

Like they don’t taste like fear. Like tears.

But reciprocation.

Alex dives into the pretences, after being allowed, after Nick whimpers to his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth, to suck on, to taste, to have, have, have, after Nick’s fingers graze skin under his shirt, to trace every shudder, to pretend the shivers spell out want to have _you_ , not want _this_ to forget. He’s pulling on the hem of Nick’s shirt, to take it off, to feast on the skin revealed, like an ambrosia of oblivion.

Nick caves in, under his mouth, that feels so adoring, that feels so real (though Alex is really deceiving himself, like he’s a beggar at the royal table, gorging on riches he thinks he doesn’t deserve, devouring Nick’s charisma, his presence, his name always being first, a magnet, a front page, gravity, even if tennis doesn’t always follow).

 _He blatantly carried me out there._ Alex mouths and bites an accusation or a confession, or both on Nick’s chest, on his collarbones: _it’s always been you, it will always be you._

As if he hates it. As if he admires it.

And Nick lets him, arches for it, with fingers weaving into Alex’s hair, gentle, loving, repentant. Seeking marks as reminders of how undeserving he is and always will be.

Alex’s shirt goes next, as soon as they’re able to tear off each other, with Alex impatiently mumbling Spanish words that sound like greed and abandon.

_Vamos, nena, por favor, necesito, quiero._

Nick’s the one to adore now. Not pretend.

_I wouldn’t want to play this tie with anyone else. He carried me through it. He’s amazing._

Alex’s hip might be narrow, almost frail. But his chest is broad and strong. A monument of work he bleeds with. Nick’s mapping the shapes with trembling hands. Admires. Adores. Wants. So fucking much. Alex’s tattoo, his tribute to the country, shines on his chest, where his heart beats underneath and Nick needs to feel it, needs to pay his own worship. To the only hero Australia will ever have. To this bravery, this passion, this devotion.

He does, his lips kiss this place. And kiss it again. And again. And again. And when he peppers this pale skin with strong muscles rippling beneath, with pecks of awe and affection, trailing to Alex’s chin, to his nose, to his cheeks, he thinks he can taste that salt. Tears he gets drunk on. Tears he wants to drink from Alex to cleanse them both from their broken intentions. From the pretences, from lies, from wrongdoings. And to reveal them with the truth.

Even if the truth is different for them.

Because Nick wants Alex and Alex wants everything Nick can be, Nick can have.

The rest is a frenzy of clothes peeled off, sweaty skin meeting sweaty skin, mouths chasing each other in sloppy but desperate kisses. Alex pushing him onto bed, straddling Nick, wringing weeping sounds from him as he rocks himself against Nick, naked, hard and wet and warm, as he seeks that completion (or wantonness more). Alex leaving bite marks on the crook of his neck, growling there. “Do you have something?”

“No, fuck, no, I didn’t know, I never thought, I,” Nick being a mess of wet, hot and needy, trashing his head, digging his fingers into Alex’s hips (bony, slight, but fitting so well in his large hands, that ebony white against the chestnut brown, he looks, he admires, he moans, and he wants like he’s reduced to nothing but this).

“Es una lástima. Quiero que me folles,” Nick wouldn’t register the meaning of the words even if they were in English, with Alex acting like he does on court, taking the lead, but making Nick follow, making Nick want to follow him straight to the edge of the world. “This will do, I guess,” spoken to Nick’s parted lips, an open-mouthed, filthy lick of a tongue, a promise, an order, everything in between, as Alex takes them both in his hands to bring them closer to that completion or wantonness.

Nick almost laments out incomprehensible whines, that might be curses, might be holy names, but might be Alex’s name repeated over and over again like his deliverance.

Because it is.

As Alex rides him, makes them meet in wet, obscene slaps, in all-consuming heat, ice burning so sweetly, fire melting ice. Perfect balance of strength and vulnerability. Of hunger but care. What they had on court. What they found there. Alex guiding him to Nick reaching deep into himself to know how much he’s capable of. (Alex’s hand brings them both off, makes Nick soar, makes Nick see stars). And Nick sheltering him, protecting him, having his back in Alex’s daredevil plunge into courage and dare. (Nick’s palms are covering patches of wet, white skin, kneading his ass, stroking his spine, worshipping broad chest, cherishing the way it makes Alex bow for them).

And just like on court in this wholeness of pieces they went off like supernova, they shatter in ecstasy together here.

But there is no wholeness. There are separate paths. Because this is something else for both of them.

Alex comes namelessly, soundlessly, biting on his lip, eyes shut, ache on his face speaking of many things (the release he still chases, the absolution that’s still elusive, tears on his cheeks, Nick instantly seeks to drink, lifting himself up, changing the angle, making Alex buck helplessly more in aftershocks of orgasm that’s still twisting his body).

And Nick follows, feeling Alex spill on his skin, tasting his tears (tasting guilt, tasting frustration, tasting inadequacy). He whimpers Alex’s name over and over again, nuzzling sweat on the path of his throat to his chest, back to that heart beating with the symbol of his love for Australia. He’s watched Alex throughout the climax, committed every bit of pain and guilt on his face to memory. He’s watched as Alex’s eyes are closed. As if he refuses to see this. To see them. Because it’s something else he yearns for. Nick’s body is not about pleasure for him. It’s about envy. Because it’s not about Nick being a man, but him being an athlete. And Australia’s hero to add to that.

Nick still chases Alex’s mouth after. Eyes heavy-lidded, purr in his throat heard and physically felt. He still dares to do that. Even though Alex is crawling down his body already with rushed out, “I need to shower.”

Like a slap back to reality. Like an icy cold realization.

Alex doesn’t want him. Alex wants tennis. As if a confirmation, blunt and concise. “ And then I need to finish packing,” follows. A message to Nick he perfectly understands, watching Alex gather scattered clothes and head for a bathroom without saying anything else. Without looking back too.

Because Alex doesn’t want him. He wants tennis. And Nick is not a hero anyway and the scraps he stole from here (the sounds, the expressions, the smells, the feel of him in his arms) are still victor’s spoils.

He doesn’t deserve.

He’s not worthy of.

*

The next day, Alex is quiet during breakfast. Lleyton has already left to handle formalities. The rest of the team finish up packing. Nick’s grateful. They are left alone, with Alex picking up on his food, refusing to look at Nick (Nick aches, because it’s not even out of guilt, Alex is already somewhere else with his thoughts, Alex is already running from this to something that matters more). And Nick here, on the outside, looking in, latching onto anything Alex lets out from behind his ice curtain.

He babbles. Unable to be in silence. Unable to realise there is not much. There is nothing Alex wants to give him anymore. “Have you thought about slam doubles, bro? Like you’re so incredible at the net, obviously, you’re incredible in general, but like doubles give you this extra kick, even more courage to get there and to finish points super efficiently. Like you keep all the energy and you press the opponent. I’ve been thinking, like this year I’m already signed up, but have you thought, about it, in the future, like in general, but like, with me, maybe, I want that courage by the net, I want that courage, period, and like, what do you think?”

Fuck.

He sounds like a lovesick schoolboy.

He might be.

Like he’s confessing again.

Because he might be.

To Alex looking at him, but not seeing, entirely. The fog in his eyes makes the sharpness and alertness of his gaze blurry. Like he did not rest. Like he did not rest throughout the entire tournament. Like there’s so little of him left there to keep going.

Nick hurts inside. He thinks he’s going to throw up the breakfast. There’s foreboding. Something cold, clammy and inevitable hanging in the air.

“Yeah. Sure, Nick. That would be cool,” and Nick knows that he’s lying. His voice not his own. It’s a role to play, it’s recreating something appropriate to say here. There’s still Alex’s hand moving across the surface of the cloth on the table, to reach for Nick’s drumming fingers (he’s nervous, he feels exposed, he’s in pain for Alex, for them, for everything).

Alex’s palm closes on Nick’s (grounding, anchoring, making him find purpose, like he does on court, like he does in tennis). Nick thinks he gasps out loud, unable to stop himself, turning his hand upwards, weaving their fingers, greedy for Alex allowing it and even responding.

The silence follows and Nick’s not afraid of it. Holding onto Alex’s hand now. Holding onto Alex. He watches their skins merge, fire and ice. It looks like perfect balance. It looks like it was meant to be.

But it isn’t. Fire and ice cancel each other out, do they?

“I believe in you, Nick. To do your best. To be your best. And they will know their true hero then,” speaking in the words of tribute or the words of accusation, Alex draws patterns on the surface of Nick’s hand. It tickles. It makes him burn, too. He grunts to cover up purr of longing. And a cry of shame.

“Don’t start that bullshit again, Alex. You will be in Melbourne. Australia’s covered, mate.”

Alex slowly pulls his hand away, even if Nick tries to catch it, keep it close, for a while, but then the touch returns. Along his tattoo. Like Alex is reading Braille’s, engraving the message underneath Nick’s skin, onto his heart.

_Inspire others._

“Remember, okay?’ his eyes shine with desperation. With the same fever they did last night, when he was drinking redemption from Nick’s body. Or damnation really.

“Remember what?” Nick asks, Nick doesn’t understand, Nick wants to feel him like this longer. Forever. But then Lleyton’s voice interrupts them.

“Ready boys?” and Alex move away, gives in to rush inside. Runs away. Into his ice tower where fire is not allowed.

*

He learns about it from Ash. Of course he does. Ash has become a hovering shadow, sometimes a reminder he’s whole and put together, other times something suffocating. Something haunting. A poltergeist in a broken house that attracted it.

“What do you mean he’s pulling out of Oz? What the fuck?” he’s in the animals shelter, helping mom, growls to the phone like it’s Ash’s fault. Like Ash made this happen. There’s fury in him roaring, louder and louder. Along with a blame he wants to pin onto the whole world.

The words come to him with delay. Just as if he’s standing on the other end of the hallway and Ash talks to him over the wall. Something about abdominal strain, about old injuries resurfacing, body betraying them, body failing them when it matters the most. He clenches his fist so hard his nails leave bloody marks on the inside of his palm.

He feels like screaming. He feels like crying, too. He hangs up and struggles to center himself, as all the pieces fall together. Alex’s manic focus, this almost fever to get to the finish line. He was killing himself in front of their eyes but he still would, trying to win the battle, trying to win this war. Alex’s desperation when he was clutching to Nick’s body, to his skin, like trying to remind himself, he’s physical, he’s capable too. Not in pain, not in pieces. Like he wanted to forget he failed them. Like he wanted to spell denial with them.

In a turmoil of emotions, there’s a flash of anger at Alex there, too. For not saying anything. Because Nick doesn’t mean that much in his life. Because everything that happened was only instrumental. A temporary medicine.

But he did say. He left the door ajar for Nick to see, to know.

_You’re going to Melbourne._

_Do your best there._

Nick just refused to. Was too big of a coward to.

His knees feel weak when he sits on a bench outside the compound and his hand is shaking when he calls Alex. The signal twists his stomach into knots. His throat is dry. His while body feels stretched and treacherous. Like the fact he has it at all, functional, healthy, strong, not paying the price, is a betrayal. There’s no answer. He tries few times, the signal, like an empty thud, fueling buzzing inside his head to the point of deafening.

Nothing.

So, he writes. The guilt spreads inside him like acid. The guilt of not knowing. And the guilt of not being the one punished.

_god alex …. im sorry.. im so sorry_

It’s ridiculous. Pathetic. What can he say? What can he do? The helplessness combined with guilt makes it difficult to breathe.

The answer does come. In the form of a writing. It’s easier this way, Nick thinks. Nick knows and understands. Maybe it hurts less to be exposed like this this.

_nothing to be sorry about mate_

He’s hovering over broken, hollow sentences. Doesn’t send any of it.

 _It should be me. It should be me._ But it isn’t. And so what else is there to say and do?

Alex anticipates him.

_I can hear you blaming yourself for that over here and its miles of distance man STOP_

_this fkin sux so much_

_It does but we;ve got the best champs out there to represent and Lleyont’s totally going_

_oh jolly silent judgment from the box I cant wait_

He doesn’t really mean it. Lleyton’s faith in him has been an anchor, too. But he would trade it for Alex being there. He would trade anything for Alex. Period.

_haha im gonna be watching and judging you too_

Nick wonders if Alex lies. Because Nick doesn’t mean that much in his life. And because watching Oz from afar would be like twisting the knife into that place on his chest where 109 beats with his heart. Another soldier to fall down on the battlefield for green and gold.  
And then he reads.

_Make me proud._

Not the country. Not the team. Alex. The fire in him awakens.

_Remember who you can be nick_

Comes then. And Nick feels an ache inside him. Alex’s faith, he doesn’t deserve, stirs to life, filling it up, like it’s there, underneath his skin, always, with that ghostly touch of his pad, along the edge of his hand where the ink says: _Inspire others._

That’s what he meant then. That’s what he wanted him to remember then.

_yessir_

He responds instantly. With fire inside him becoming strong flames, brimming with heat, ready to burn for years to come.

Norlaila finds him staring at the screen of his phone, reading the words over and over again, to be able to bring them back when it matters. When he feels weak, alone and scared. When he thinks he can’t do it. When he deems himself unworthy or inadequate.

He is neither.

Because Alex believes in him.

Her hand on his shoulder shakes him out of the daze.

“You okay, baby?”

His vision goes blurry, then. Emotions swelling inside, pouring onto the outside, to her lifting him up and holding him close, with soft reassurance and pets of her hands.

He must say it out loud, though. To fully believe that he can. He does. Mumbles it to her shoulder, clutching to her safe, familiar form.

“I have to be. I will be.”

*

And so in the end he is. And so in the end he fights the battles with new resolve, with heart and determination. With love and passion for tennis. 

“That was for you, little fella,” his voice breaks over the words, because they are heavy with meaning. Poignant. Intimate.

It’s a confession. Piece of his heart laid bare out there. Only for Alex to know. Only for Alex to see.

He gives his all, with love and passion for tennis.

But in the end what his tennis is is Alex’s.

**Author's Note:**

> *obviously Nick's motivation rekindled and burning bright is built of many things but his teammate/brother/soldier love for Alex is a huge part of it I just took it into more intimate areas, oh well, sorry not sorry


End file.
